Tag: trans

As a intersex woman, finding or getting into a relationship is a little hard at times. There are 4 types of guys I always come across.

1. The guy that just wants to experiment and find out what he wants, but in the meantime not really taking your feelings into consideration.

2. The guy that wants you to be a secret or a down low relationship, and this guy is typically married or has a girlfriend.

3. The guy that views it as a fetish or thinks of you as a toy.

4. Last but not least, the good guy. Now this guy is out there, but sometimes you can’t see him even if he is right in front of you.

You’ve been though all the other guys so now you just believe all guys are the same. Or you have a really specific type. That is all good, but nobody is perfect and you are probably never going to find the right guy that has 100% of everything you want and need. If you do find that guy he is either pretending or hiding something.

But… if you do find the ultimate guy of your dreams, good for you girl! And like can you help a sister out here?

I think everyone goes through challenges when getting or finding that person to connect with no matter the gender, race and so on. Just at the end of the day, don’t sacrifice parts of yourself to get the guy, or try to make someone like you. Because we are all perfect as we are no matter what.

It’s 2019 and for years I’ve been so afraid of making my story public on social media or to anyone that doesn’t know me personally. However, I’m finally at a place in my life where i love who I am and how far i have come. I’m intersex and being intersex has given me a life much more difficult but in many more ways wonderful then I thought it would. I’ve finally come to a place of peace and true happiness in myself. I’m sorry to anyone that I’ve upset from this, I wish I could have been open from the start, but no one (unless you’re intersex / trans) could truly understand what it’s like to live a day in our lives. I really hope that anyone I may have offended/ hurt finds it in their hearts to forgive me, this has been one of the hardest things to overcome personally. Anyway, it now out there, unfollow me if you wish or you can keep up with my crazy wonderful journey of being a proud intersex woman. I love you all! 💕

I’ve struggled with acne for a long time. It started with just a few spots here and there. I remember my family telling me not to worry, that it was normal for a teenager. But as I went through my teenage years it seemed to get worse, not better. I tried everything that’s out there for acne – every product, treatment, or pill. Doctors continued to give me remedies that didn’t help. They always said it gets worse, and then better. But better never came to my house. He probably skipped my street.

So, acne made me feel self-conscious in a big, big way. I felt like I had pizza face. I felt like people judged me. I felt unattractive and less confident. I felt like people were staring at me all the time, that they were looking at my acne instead of me. And that gave me a lot of anxiety making me feel really, really bad about myself. I wasn’t beautiful, and it was so important to me to be beautiful.

I used to cake make-up on, and it never seemed to be enough. People always told me that make-up causes acne. Fun fact: it doesn’t cause acne, but it does clog pores.

When I was about 15 or 16, I went to see a dermatologist, and he gave me some cream and some pills to take. My acne got worse and worse, but then it gradually got better as time went on. I’d see good results, but every time I saw good results, I’d stop the prescription creams and pills. A few months would go by, and sure enough, acne came back even worse than before. I finally started using the cream again, and really sticking to it and thought it was gone for good.

I was about 17 when it popped up like crazy all over my face. There seriously wasn’t a space between what was a pimple and a space that was clear. It tore at my confidence. It made me feel so bad that I finally just told myself: I love my acne, and I love myself. I just really didn’t give a f*ck about what people thought.

Finally, I found a brand – Origins. Turns out sticking to one brand that contains all natural ingredients was one of the main keys that helped me control my acne. I’m happy with myself today. Yes, I still have marks and some acne here and there, but I love my acne because it’s a part of me.

So, here’s a big Life Lesson: At the end of the day know that you’re beautiful and strong. Never let anyone tell you you’re not. Stay true to yourself and love yourself. I think that is one of the most important things ever to know in life. ~ Gean

…Is still the Right Boob. Duct tape worked for a while. Then it didn’t. We’re going to try plastic wrap next with soft adhesive in the back. We’ll see.

I ­so get this. My Right Boob is totally radiated…irradicated…whatever the correct word is. Stage 0, so looks like I won the Cancer Lottery this year. Get to keep the Right Boob. All is well, even after radiation. OK, OK, so it’s mostly good; a few bumps and scars guaranteed to entertain for at least another five years.

So, the kid comes to me half way during the radiation treatment, with her Right Boob all messed up. “Are you sure it’s the Right Boob,” I say. “Yep,” she says,”it is.” “Duct tape,” I say, knowing it is a temporary solution. OK for now, but she and I both know its days are numbered.

What can I say? I love this kid. I buy her boobs on Amazon, while hers still grow. If they last 6 months we’re happy. Mine lasted over 60 years, but who’s to judge? My Right Boob doesn’t look this good even without duct tape.

So, out she walks, head held high and smile to match. She’s going to a teen “event” tonight. At sixteen, she owns the world; more importantly, she owns a second set of new boobs. Yeah, I’m a foolish, old woman who loves to spoil her baby girl.

Tears come after she leaves. I don’t want to show them now, not when she is on top of the world. A party to attend, and closure on a personal issue that has been a black spot on her soul since…since when? I suppose it began the day she was born.

Today she feels free. Today she spoke the words she has wanted to say for most of her life. “No,” she tells the person on the other end of the phone, “no, you are not my mom…you are my birth mother.” And just like that it is over.

Only for me, there are tears because I know why birth mother didn’t keep her. I know why auntie/momma gave her up at puberty. The other two moms still call her by her birth name. She isn’t that person, never was. He never really existed, and when he did, no one knew what to do with him, or even how to love him without conditions.

“Send him to me,” I said to my cousin. “I’d love to have another kid. It’s all family. It’ll be good.” Yes, friend, insanity does run in my family. None of us are spared.

And it is all good, and it’s golden, especially since he is she, and she is bold, beautiful, intelligent, and a challenge to anyone who meets her. Those that can appreciate such rare combination of traits become her friends and family forever. Those that don’t…well, for her loyalty is a sharp sword that cuts in both directions.

So why cry? I cry for the two moms who came before me. I cried because they wanted something else. “A girl would have been nice,” she said. “This one wasn’t really supposed to live, was it?” said the other.

I am so sorry for you.

And yes, I am still a foolish, old woman who probably cries too easily.